The tiny shack with a tiny window (Wattys2016)

Heart

Heart. Beat. Bump-bump, bump-bump, bump-bump. Stab. One year later, the boy living in the tiny shack with the tiny window finds himself once again painting his canvas, his beautiful wooden canvas that are the tiny shack's walls, floor and ceiling. The knife comes out from where it had cleanly punctured the body's lung from underneath its ribcage, straight from the heart. Blood pours out and pools on the floor, seeping into the wood and staining it, painting it, making it pretty. The boy then slices the body's carotid artery, smiling as more blood flows out. Thump. Rolllll—thunk. The boy looks up in alarm as something rolls to a halt in front of him; it's a tire.

Tire. Wait, the boy thinks, a tire? Wherever did that come from? The boy gets up, leaving the body but keeping his knife. He pokes the tire warily with the tip of the knife, once, twice, then slashes it open violently. It's empty. He looks up through his open door—he'd forgotten to close it—and sees a broken-down car, its tires having rolled everywhere. The roof of the car is completely bashed-in. He can see the dead bodies, two of them in the car and one on the outside, slumped against car doors with peeling-off paint.

Paint. The boy looks at the sad paint job the car had been given and comes to a decision: he's going to repaint the poor car with shiny red paint. He abandons the body in his little shack, the tiny shack with the tiny window, and walks over to the car, knife in hand. He approaches the body on the outside and pokes it warily, not unlike how he had done with the tire. He doesn't slash it, though; once he's confirmed that yes, it's dead, he drags his blade almost lovingly down the body's cheek, then gently slices the neck. He watches the blood pool for a while before getting to work, decorating the body with little cuts and tears.

Tears. Sobs, hiccups. A sniffle; a very long one. The boy looks up, slightly miffed, and his eyes land on one of the bodies in the car. Apparently, it's still alive. He huffs in annoyance before yanking open the car door and silencing the noises with his knife, killing the body before opening up slashes on its neck and wrists. He maneuvers the body so the blood paints over the car nicely, making sure it coats evenly. He does the same to the two other bodies, grinning at the final product: a beautiful red car, its paint slowly turning to black.

Black. That's how some bodies—the living ones—had described him, him and his heart. The way they had said it was not unlike what was currently happening to the car, the pretty red broken-down car whose paint was slowly turning black in the afternoon sun. Some of the humans who had described his heart had tried to sympathise with him, saying that he must've started out innocent, with a red heart, and that it had blackened. Others had said that he was heartless. He ignored all of them. It was ridiculous; of course his heart is still red, he's alive. He has a functioning heart.

The car's now as black as his metaphorical heart. 

A/N: Thank you to consulting_asgardian for the words. 

A/N #2: The words don't have to be relevant to the story, you know. I like a challenge; writing out a bloody horror story with the words "bubbles, rainbow, unicorn, cat, laptop" would be a lot more entertaining.